


Of Breaking & Remaking

by ProudtobeMAD



Category: Pratnja/The Escort - Jelena Vucic
Genre: Crack, DearieAlpha, M/M, No Other Beta I Die Like One, SpaceBoi/ExoticBoi/AwkwardBoi, The S.E.A. ship, beaking things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProudtobeMAD/pseuds/ProudtobeMAD
Summary: Universe alternate series of loosely related episodes into the life of the trio, in a what-if scenario where they just picked up the prince and lived together. (Like Masks and war and betrayal wasn't on the brink of toppling everything into nothingness. And death. Don't forget death. #DearieWroteThat)





	Of Breaking & Remaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cokaserbia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cokaserbia/gifts).

It was a slow, humid month for Jonathan Brooks. It was either rain or mist outside, and no matter how hard the fire roared in the hearth, gray scratched at windows and found its way inside. He had hoped for a few minutes to himself after coming into office, to warm up and maybe get a cup of tea with just a dash of brandy; any more would bring a frown on Mrs. Brooks face as it was certain that sleeping in the tavern as punishment for it wasn’t worth it in such weather.

All hopes of quiet morning were dashed as he was greeted at the doors by Calvin, his freckled, nervous assistant.

“Sir Brooks! We have a client!”

_Here we go again. _“Good morning, Calvin.”

Mr. Brooks took off his hat, then coat, and checked his appearance in the mirror right by the hanging hooks. This wasn’t his first rodeo. Calvin shifted from side to side, impatient and mute.

“Name?”

“Ah- Uh, Mr. Borough, sir.”

“Alright,” one more tug at the lapels to straighten everything out. “Put the cattle on. I wager this won’t take long.”

xXxXx

Now, Jonathan Brooks was a professional.

The man, a _Mr. Borough_, who had in all of 7 minutes of their acquaintance complained about the weather (_“Everything is wet and smells of piss.”_), children (_“Manipulative, snot-nosed know-it-alls, the lot of ‘em...”_) and his brandy (_“Nasty swill.”_), drank two shots and was nursing a third glass when he finally spoke.

“I am interested in procuring an estate at the southwest part of the lake.” The sentence sounded rehearsed.

“Ah.”

Professionalism took time to boot up. Shuffling papers and clearing space on the desk was a valid mechanism in the whole charade of a collected, seasoned realtor.

“The one on the cliff, with stairs to a private dock and a nasty looking tree,” Mr. Borough explained, while he played with a damp strand of hair falling over his forehead.

_It’s a 680-year-old bristlecone pine! _wrestled with good, old _Customer is always right._

“Yes, that estate is still available,” was what came out. “May I inquire about-“

Glass abruptly clanked on the stone top of the fireplace followed by a heavy sigh that demanded silence. So it stretched.

Mr. Brooks forgot about the act and just prayed that the shock - and displeasure of seeing his client wipe the bit of alley mud on his high-knot carpet - wasn’t showing on his face.

“We are prepared to pay 10% over the reasonable price, and even throw extra 5% if the deed is written up and fully finished by the end of the day.”

“Mr. Borough, it can be arranged, but payment must-“

“Oh, right,” the man approached the wingback chair that now sported a cowboy hat – _When? -_ but not a respectable client, and picked up something underneath it.

Something that was very much a burlap sack with gold coins in it. It had produce stains and a **<strike>PATOTO</strike> GOLD** written in clear, bold letters; like renaming it would hide its plebeian past. _Stars shine over us all._

“That should be enough. You are free to count it, of course.”

“_Of course_,” croaked Mr. Brooks.

“Best thing I heard all morning! Now, information on the future owner is in the letter inside, and if there aren’t any additional questions, I’d leave you to it.”

As possessed, Jonathan Brooks nodded taking out the envelope, with all the gracefulness of prey testing the predator’s reflexes. Predator was already half out of the door, spooking Calvin on the other side.

“I will be back sometime before dinner. Till then, Mr. Brooks,” hat on his chest and small, good-natured nod, and the man was gone.

“Sir, I have brought you your tea…”

Moment later, as if burned, realtor was on his feet and grabbing at the tray from his stunned assistant. All the fine porcelain click-clacked, and the cups overturned when the whole thing was unceremoniously dropped onto the desk, right next to the sack. What was left of the tea was dashed into the fireplace, not really doing much to discourage the flames for long.

“Calvin, this is a lesson you need to learn if you want to keep going in this business.”

Portrait of one and only Mrs. Geraldine Brooks smiled serenely amidst wisteria trees; the way she smiled at their wedding, at the first steps of their youngest. The way she _wouldn’t smile_ if she knew that her husband drank behind her back, or hid bottles of illegally imported alcohol behind commissioned portrait of herself. “On Tuesdays, _Flying Carp _is the only tavern in whole of Valgo that for one extra coin guarantees that you won’t get lice if you sleep in their rooms.”

xXxXx

Calvin sure remembered that lesson well, although only partially. Mistaking lice-free Tuesday with rice gratis Thursday, in an unexpected set of circumstances cost him his marriage, but that-

That’s a story for another time; Jackson told it much better anyways, romantic fool that he is, and Calvin wouldn’t have him any other way.


End file.
